Collected Essays, by George Orwell

Writers and Leviathan (1948)

The position of the writer in an age of State control is a subject that has already been fairly
largely discussed, although most of the evidence that might be relevant is not yet available. In this place I do not
want to express an opinion either for or against State patronage of the arts, but merely to point out that WHAT KIND of
State rules over us must depend partly on the prevailing intellectual atmosphere: meaning, in this context, partly on
the attitude of writers and artists themselves, and on their willingness or otherwise to keep the spirit of liberalism
alive. If we find ourselves in ten years’ time cringing before somebody like Zhdanov, it will probably be because that
is what we have deserved. Obviously there are strong tendencies towards totalitarianism at work within the English
literary intelligentsia already. But here I am not concerned with any organised and conscious movement such as
Communism, but merely with the effect, on people of goodwill, of political thinking and the need to take sides
politically.

This is a political age. War, Fascism, concentration camps, rubber truncheons, atomic bombs, etc are what we daily
think about, and therefore to a great extent what we write about, even when we do not name them openly. We cannot help
this. When you are on a sinking ship, your thoughts will be about sinking ships. But not only is our subject-matter
narrowed, but our whole attitude towards literature is coloured by loyalties which we at least intermittently realise
to be non-literary. I often have the feeling that even at the best of times literary criticism is fraudulent, since in
the absence of any accepted standards whatever — any EXTERNAL reference which can give meaning to the statement that
such and such a book is “good” or “bad”— every literary judgement consists in trumping up a set of rules to justify an
instinctive preference. One’s real reaction to a book, when one has a reaction at all, is usually “I like this book” or
“I don’t like it”, and what follows is a rationalisation. But “I like this book” is not, I think, a non-literary
reaction; the non-literary reaction is “This book is on my side, and therefore I must discover merits in it”. Of
course, when one praises a book for political reasons one may be emotionally sincere, in the sense that one does feel
strong approval of it, but also it often happens that party solidarity demands a plain lie. Anyone used to reviewing
books for political periodicals is well aware of this. In general, if you are writing for a paper that you are in
agreement with, you sin by commission, and if for a paper of the opposite stamp, by omission. At any rate, innumerable
controversial books-books for or against Soviet Russia, for or against Zionism, for or against the Catholic Church, etc
— are judged before they are read, and in effect before they are written. One knows in advance what reception they will
get in what papers. And yet, with a dishonesty that sometimes is not even quarter-conscious, the pretence is kept up
that genuinely literary standards are being applied.

Of course, the invasion of literature by politics was bound to happen. It must have happened, even if the special
problem of totalitarianism had never arisen, because we have developed a sort of compunction which our grandparents did
not have, an awareness of the enormous injustice and misery of the world, and a guilt-stricken feeling that one ought
to be doing something about it, which makes a purely aesthetic attitude towards life impossible. No one, now, could
devote himself to literature as single-mindedly as Joyce or Henry James. But unfortunately, to accept political
responsibility now means yielding oneself over to orthodoxies and “party lines”, with all the timidity and dishonesty
that that implies. As against the Victorian writers, we have the disadvantage of living among clear-cut political
ideologies and of usually knowing at a glance what thoughts are heretical. A modern literary intellectual lives and
writes in constant dread — not, indeed, of public opinion in the wider sense, but of public opinion within his own
group. As a rule, luckily, there is more than one group, but also at any given moment there is a dominant orthodoxy, to
offend against which needs a thick skin and sometimes means cutting one’s income in half for years on end. Obviously,
for about fifteen years past, the dominant orthodoxy, especially among the young, has been “left”. The key words are
“progressive”, “democratic” and “revolutionary”, while the labels which you must at all costs avoid having gummed upon
you are “bourgeois”, “reactionary” and “Fascist”. Almost everyone nowadays, even the majority of Catholics and
Conservatives, is “progressive”, or at least wishes to be thought so. No one, so far as I know, ever describes himself
as a “bourgeois”, just as no one literate enough to have heard the word ever admits to being guilty of antisemitism. We
are all of us good democrats, anti-Fascist, anti-imperialist, contemptuous of class distinctions, impervious to colour
prejudice, and so on and so forth. Nor is there much doubt that the present-day “left” orthodoxy is better than the
rather snobbish, pietistic Conservative orthodoxy which prevailed twenty years ago, when the CRITERION and (on a lower
level) the LONDON MERCURY were the dominant literary magazines. For at the least its implied objective is a viable form
of society which large numbers of people actually want. But it also has its own falsities which, because they cannot be
admitted, make it impossible for certain questions to be seriously discussed.

The whole left-wing ideology, scientific and Utopian, was evolved by people who had no immediate prospect of
attaining power. It was, therefore, an extremist ideology, utterly contemptuous of kings, governments, laws, prisons,
police forces, armies, flags, frontiers, patriotism, religion, conventional morality, and, in fact, the whole existing
scheme of things. Until well within living memory the forces of the Left in all countries were fighting against a
tyranny which appeared to be invincible, and it was easy to assume that if only THAT particular tyranny — capitalism —
could be overthrown, Socialism would follow. Moreover, the Left had inherited from Liberalism certain distinctly
questionable beliefs, such as the belief that the truth will prevail and persecution defeats itself, or that man is
naturally good and is only corrupted by his environment. This perfectionist ideology has persisted in nearly all of us,
and it is in the name of it that we protest when (for instance) a Labour government votes huge incomes to the King’s
daughters or shows hesitation about nationalising steel. But we have also accumulated in our minds a whole series of
unadmitted contradictions, as a result of successive bumps against reality.

The first big bump was the Russian Revolution. For somewhat complex reasons, nearly the whole of the English Left
has been driven to accept the Russian régime as “Socialist”, while silently recognising that its spirit and practice
are quite alien to anything that is meant by “Socialism” in this country. Hence there has arisen a sort of
schizophrenic manner of thinking, in which words like “democracy” can bear two irreconcilable meanings, and such things
as concentration camps and mass deportations can be right and wrong simultaneously. The next blow to the left-wing
ideology was the rise of Fascism, which shook the pacifism and internationalism of the Left without bringing about a
definite restatement of doctrine. The experience of German occupation taught the European peoples something that the
colonial peoples knew already, namely, that class antagonisms are not all-important and that there is such a thing as
national interest. After Hitler it was difficult to maintain seriously that “the enemy is in your own country” and that
national independence is of no value. But though we all know this and act upon it when necessary, we still feel that to
say it aloud would be a kind of treachery. And finally, the greatest difficulty of all, there is the fact that the Left
is now in power and is obliged to take responsibility and make genuine decisions.

Left governments almost invariably disappoint their supporters because, even when the prosperity which they have
promised is achievable, there is always need of an uncomfortable transition period about which little has been said
beforehand. At this moment we see our own Government, in its desperate economic straits, fighting in effect against its
own past propaganda. The crisis that we are now in is not a sudden unexpected calamity, like an earthquake, and it was
not caused by the war, but merely hastened by it. Decades ago it could be foreseen that something of this kind was
going to happen. Ever since the nineteenth century our national income, dependent partly on interest from foreign
investments, and on assured markets and cheap raw materials in colonial countries, had been extremely precarious. It
was certain that, sooner or later, something would go wrong and we should be forced to make our exports balance our
imports: and when that happened the British standard of living, including the working-class standard, was bound to
fall, at least temporarily. Yet the left-wing parties, even when they were vociferously anti-imperialist, never made
these facts clear. On occasion they were ready to admit that the British workers had benefited, to some extent, by the
looting of Asia and Africa, but they always allowed it to appear that we could give up our loot and yet in some way
contrive to remain prosperous. Quite largely, indeed, the workers were won over to Socialism by being told that they
were exploited, whereas the brute truth was that, in world terms, they were exploiters. Now, to all appearances, the
point has been reached when the working-class living-standard CANNOT be maintained, let alone raised. Even if we
squeeze the rich out of existence, the mass of the people must either consume less or produce more. Or am I
exaggerating the mess we are in? I may be, and I should be glad to find myself mistaken. But the point I wish to make
is that this question, among people who are faithful to the Left ideology, cannot be genuinely discussed. The lowering
of wages and raising of working hours are felt to be inherently anti-Socialist measures, and must therefore be
dismissed in advance, whatever the economic situation may be. To suggest that they may be unavoidable is merely to risk
being plastered with those labels that we are all terrified of. It is far safer to evade the issue and pretend that we
can put everything right by redistributing the existing national income.

To accept an orthodoxy is always to inherit unresolved contradictions. Take for instance the fact that all sensitive
people are revolted by industrialism and its products, and yet are aware that the conquest of poverty and the
emancipation of the working class demand not less industrialisation, but more and more. Or take the fact that certain
jobs are absolutely necessary and yet are never done except under some kind of coercion. Or take the fact that it is
impossible to have a positive foreign policy without having powerful armed forces. One could multiply examples. In
every such case there is a conclusion which is perfectly plain but which can only be drawn if one is privately disloyal
to the official ideology. The normal response is to push the question, unanswered, into a corner of one’s mind, and
then continue repeating contradictory catchwords. One does not have to search far through the reviews and magazines to
discover the effects of this kind of thinking.

I am not, of course, suggesting that mental dishonesty is peculiar to Socialists and left-wingers generally, or is
commonest among them. It is merely that acceptance of ANY political discipline seems to be incompatible with literary
integrity. This applies equally to movements like Pacifism and Personalism, which claim to be outside the ordinary
political struggle. Indeed, the mere sound of words ending in — ism seems to bring with it the smell of propaganda.
Group loyalties are necessary, and yet they are poisonous to literature, so long as literature is the product of
individuals. As soon as they are allowed to have any influence, even a negative one, on creative writing, the result is
not only falsification, but often the actual drying-up of the inventive faculties.

Well, then what? Do we have to conclude that it is the duty of every writer to “keep out of politics”? Certainly
not! In any case, as I have said already, no thinking person can or does genuinely keep out of politics, in an age like
the present one. I only suggest that we should draw a sharper distinction than we do at present between our political
and our literary loyalties, and should recognise that a willingness to DO certain distasteful but necessary things does
not carry with it any obligation to swallow the beliefs that usually go with them. When a writer engages in politics he
should do so as a citizen, as a human being, but not AS A WRITER. I do not think that he has the right, merely on the
score of his sensibilities, to shirk the ordinary dirty work of politics. Just as much as anyone else, he should be
prepared to deliver lectures in draughty halls, to chalk pavements, to canvass voters, to distribute leaflets, even to
fight in civil wars if it seems necessary. But whatever else he does in the service of his party, he should never write
for it. He should make it clear that his writing is a thing apart. And he should be able to act co-operatively while,
if he chooses, completely rejecting the official ideology. He should never turn back from a train of thought because it
may lead to a heresy, and he should not mind very much if his unorthodoxy is smelt out, as it probably will be. Perhaps
it is even a bad sign in a writer if he is not suspected of reactionary tendencies today, just as it was a bad sign if
he was not suspected of Communist sympathies twenty years ago.

But does all this mean that a writer should not only refuse to be dictated to by political bosses, but also that he
should refrain from writing ABOUT politics? Once again, certainly not! There is no reason why he should not write in
the most crudely political way, if he wishes to. Only he should do so as an individual, an outsider, at the most an
unwelcome guerrilla on the flank of a regular army. This attitude is quite compatible with ordinary political
usefulness. It is reasonable, for example, to be willing to fight in a war because one thinks the war ought to be won,
and at the same time to refuse to write war propaganda. Sometimes, if a writer is honest, his writings and his
political activities may actually contradict one another. There are occasions when that is plainly undesirable: but
then the remedy is not to falsify one’s impulses, but to remain silent.

To suggest that a creative writer, in a time of conflict, must split his life into two compartments, may seem
defeatist or frivolous: yet in practice I do not see what else he can do. To lock yourself up in an ivory tower is
impossible and undesirable. To yield subjectively, not merely to a party machine, but even to a group ideology, is to
destroy yourself as a writer. We feel this dilemma to be a painful one, because we see the need of engaging in politics
while also seeing what a dirty, degrading business it is. And most of us still have a lingering belief that every
choice, even every political choice, is between good and evil, and that if a thing is necessary it is also right. We
should, I think, get rid of this belief, which belongs to the nursery. In politics one can never do more than decide
which of two evils is the lesser, and there are some situations from which one can only escape by acting like a devil
or a lunatic. War, for example, may be necessary, but it is certainly not right or sane. Even a General Election is not
exactly a pleasant or edifying spectacle. If you have to take part in such things — and I think you do have to, unless
you are armoured by old age or stupidity or hypocrisy — then you also have to keep part of yourself inviolate. For most
people the problem does not arise in the same form, because their lives are split already. They are truly alive only in
their leisure hours, and there is no emotional connection between their work and their political activities. Nor are
they generally asked, in the name of political loyalty, to debase themselves as workers. The artist, and especially the
writer, is asked just that — in fact, it is the only thing that Politicians ever ask of him. If he refuses, that does
not mean that he is condemned to inactivity. One half of him, which in a sense is the whole of him, can act as
resolutely, even as violently if need be, as anyone else. But his writings, in so far as they have any value, will
always be the product of the saner self that stands aside, records the things that are done and admits their necessity,
but refuses to be deceived as to their true nature.